Confederate Gold and Silver

by Peter F. Warren

  The noise of a heavy foot stepping on a dry fallen tree branch snapped each of them back from where they had been in their thoughts of being home with their family and friends. Hearing the noise, Francis kicked Banks as quietly as possible, waking him from the deep and restful sleep he had been enjoying. Quickly he was awake and scanning the wood line in front of him for Union soldiers.

  While they quickly focused on the area where they had spread out their bedrolls, their experiences from being in the woods back home and from serving in the army had taught them not to just focus on the obvious. Now their eyes also scanned the whole area around them, making sure danger had not snuck up on them in other places besides the obvious one. Francis had reminded them of that again when they had first hid in the woods. He had also told them he would be the one to pay attention to the areas away from where the shooting started. They would deal with the obvious threat they saw and he would deal with the danger lurking elsewhere.

  The first noise had come from off to their right, close to where Stine had been hiding in the woods. Now he crouched down behind a pine tree, partially hidden from view by a Palmetto bush which grew near the tree he was hiding behind. Stine first, and then Davis, saw the figure slowly creep towards their bedrolls from the woods off to the right. As their eyes followed this figure, they also saw a second figure appear from the woods directly in front of them. Both figures were less than forty feet from where they hid. The light from the moon was now their ally as it allowed them to watch the two figures move closer to the trap they had set for them.

  Quickly two other figures came running out of the woods off to the left of where Francis and Banks now knelt low in the tree line. The two figures ran as fast as they could without making too much noise. Francis and Banks watched as these figures sprinted the last few feet to the bedrolls which no longer contained any sleeping men. Raising their rifles, with bayonets fixed, the intruders repeatedly stabbed the empty bedrolls several times before realizing they had been fooled.

  It was almost as if it had been choreographed. As the Union soldiers stopped their attack on the empty bedrolls, they turned to see the rifles of Francis’ men light up the night as the powder in the rifles burned. The burning powder sent two minie balls racing towards them. It was now too late for the soldiers to react to what they saw as Davis and Stine had already fired at them. The Union soldiers had been too close for two experienced Confederate soldiers to miss. Quickly two Union soldiers fell dead.

  First firing McKinney’s rifle, Francis struck his target with a shot to the soldier’s stomach. The Union soldier first dropped to his knees as he clutched his burning stomach and then fell to the ground on his back, the pain too intense for him to continue with the fight.

  Standing up, Francis fired the last two shots from his pistol. Missing with the first shot, he struck the fourth soldier in the upper left arm with the second shot. Picking up Odom’s rifle, Stine also fired at the soldier who had been shot in the arm. The hastily fired shot struck the soldier in the upper right thigh. Despite being shot twice, the soldier still did not fall and he recklessly fired his rifle at Francis, but the shot was high and it harmlessly flew into the woods. Dropping his empty rifle, the soldier hobbled off into the woods as fast as his injuries allowed.

  Stine then moved forward to check on the first two intruders they had shot. He quickly saw they both were dead. As he moved toward the soldier Francis had shot in the stomach, one who was now trying to crawl off into the woods, a shot was fired from the woods. Mortally wounded, Stine fell to the ground just after he had yelled “Look out!” He had seen the last soldier firing his rifle as he charged towards them.

  Reacting to Stine’s warning, Francis spun around to see the fifth and last Union soldier charging at him, his empty rifle poised to crush the side of Francis’ head with a deadly blow. But before the soldier could swing his rifle, Francis reacted first. Without a wasted movement, he quickly ran his saber into the charging soldier’s upper chest. Now injured and down on the ground, neither of the surviving soldiers saw what ended their lives. Their time on earth ended when a Confederate saber was run through each of them. The attack was over, but Stine was dead. His death enraged Francis as he had lost another man.

  Despite killing the two Union soldiers with his saber, and despite having hung other men during this mission, Francis was not a violent man. However, when challenged to defend his men and himself, he had the ability many other men did not have. It was the ability to deal the final savage blow to end a threat. As he felt after having his men hang those who had tried to sneak up on them that night in the barn, he also had no regret this night for what he had done. “Now I am going to go find that last Yankee bastard and I am going to kill him also! Damn him!” He started into the woods when Davis called to him.

  “Captain, not now, it’s too dangerous. We don’t know who else might be out there.”

  The words of caution caused Francis to pause and think. “Davis is right. Now is not the time to pursue anyone.” He turned and walked back to where his two remaining men stood. By now Banks had reloaded all of their rifles. He had also checked on Stine, but he was dead.

  Like Francis, Davis now mourned the loss of a fellow Virginian, one he had come to love as he loved his own brothers who were still back home. Burying the others had always been hard on him, but now digging the grave for his friend was almost too much for him to handle. As he finished burying his friend, he seethed hatred at the Yankees, vowing to extract revenge on them for taking the life of someone he thought of as a brother. “I shall curse the damned Yankees until the day I die.” Lying nearby were the bodies of the dead Union soldiers. Davis angrily yelled at the dead soldiers as he threw the shovel in their direction. “Dig your own graves, damn you!”

  Francis had checked the bodies of the dead soldiers for anything he and his men might be able to use, but he found nothing except a small amount of tobacco and a homemade pipe. “Not like Union soldiers to attack at night. They must have thought they could take us or else they thought we had more food than we do.” Collecting their own gear, he and his two remaining men prepared to move out before they could be attacked again. As they did, Davis took the saddle and reins from Stine’s horse and placed them in the rear of the wagon. His horse was left to wander off on his own.

  Davis now drove the single wagon they had with them, his horse and Odom’s tied to the rear of it as they pushed northeast. As they moved along they kept the Waccamaw River to their right. With Francis keeping a sharp eye out for sudden movements in the tall river grass, Davis kept a close lookout in the direction of the large rice fields of the plantations. In the distance, lights from the main house of a nearby plantation could be seen across the narrowing river.

  The moon’s bright light and the events of the evening combined to play tricks on Francis’ tired mind as they pushed slowly onward. The tall river grass caused him to stop on a couple of occasions as a soft gentle wind pushed the tall grass in directions his tired mind thought were the shapes of Union soldiers dancing in different directions. Despite what had just happened, he could sense the fatigue in his body. Looking at Davis, he could see he was also struggling to stay awake as he drove the wagon. In his head he played out the few options he still had as they slowly moved along. “We need to get some sleep, but we cannot stop now. We need to cross the river first and then we can sleep.” They moved even slower over the next hour due to their fatigue and due to being overly cautious. In a hushed but fatigued voice, Francis finally called them to a stop, knowing they needed to sleep. It would be the first fatal mistake he made during the entire mission.

  As Davis pulled the wagon to a stop, he looked up at the bright full moon which had helped them navigate their way. Still seated, he took a long sip of water from his canteen. Standing up from where he had sat on the wagon’s hard wooden seat, he took a moment to stretch his arms and legs in the autumn’s warm early morning h
ours before climbing down. As he stood there stretching his tired body, Francis rode up slowly along the left side of the wagon. Without the slightest bit of warning, two shots rang out from the woods off to their left and Davis fell dead, shot through the left side of his neck. Francis instinctively turned to where the loud noise of the rifle shots had come from. He could hear footsteps running nearby in the woods.

  Hearing the ugly sound a minie ball makes when it strikes flesh, Francis then turned to look at Davis, but he was already dead. His lifeless body had fallen awkwardly across the seat of the wagon. Turning in his saddle, he looked for Banks who had been riding out in front of them. As almost if on cue, Banks’ rider less horse trotted slowly back in the direction of where Francis still sat on his horse. He realized Banks had likely been killed by Union soldiers who had quietly ambushed him.

  Reacting to the noise of footsteps running through the brush towards him, Francis withdrew his saber from his scabbard. Doing so caused the scabbard’s worn leather strap to break and it fell harmlessly to the ground. Then he heard the voices of the soldiers who had just shot Davis and ambushed Banks. “We got two of them, let’s get the last one! He’s all alone now!” From the protective darkness of the woods where they had been, he saw two Union soldiers charge at him on foot. He had been fortunate to see them when they had run from the woods into a small clearing the moon had illuminated. As the first soldier grabbed the reins to his horse, the other soldier tried desperately to knock Francis out of his saddle.

  With his saber in his right hand and while fighting to maintain control of the reins in his still weak left hand, Francis spurred his horse with his right foot as the Union soldier pulled on his left leg. Confused by the command given him and by the soldier yanking on the reins at the same time, the horse quickly moved to its left; the quick movement nearly throwing Francis out of the saddle. As the horse turned to its left, it stepped on the left foot of the soldier who had been grabbing at the reins. Screaming out in pain, the soldier let go of the reins as he fell to the ground, his left foot broken from the weight of the horse stepping on it.

  Free of the soldier who had been grabbing at the reins, Francis’ horse lurched forward. As it did, Francis hacked twice at the soldier who had been trying to knock him out of his saddle. The second slash of his saber caused the fatal wound to the soldier’s neck. The pain the soldier felt caused him to scream out in agony, a scream that was likely heard for some distance. Momentarily giving thought to dismounting from his horse so he could end the life of the soldier who was rolling on the ground with a broken foot, Francis chose to flee as other trouble likely lurked in the darkness.

  Darting away and riding low in the saddle, Francis was surprised to hear the sound of two more musket shots being fired at him. The first shot whizzed by the left side of his head as it flew off into the woods out in front of him. But then he felt the hot sting in his left leg and he knew he had been shot. “Damn it!” He cried out not because he had been shot, but because he immediately knew the wound would impact his ability to finish what he had been charged with. “It will be alright, I will have it taken care of. It will be alright.” Francis pushed his horse hard to move away from the threat they faced, while at the same time trying to convince himself that he would be fine. He was only successful in moving further away from the Union soldiers, deep down he knew he was in trouble.

  He pushed his horse as hard as he could for almost another hour before he finally stopped to rest. They both needed a drink of water and Francis knew he had to treat his wound before he bled to death. He now had little to use except his hands and his bayonet. The rest of his supplies had been abandoned with the wagon when the soldiers had charged at him from the woods.

  After drinking a few handfuls of water from a small stream which fed into the Waccamaw River, Francis sat down and leaned back against a large Live Oak tree, catching his breath before treating his wound. “If only I could rest here for a spell, everything would then be fine.” Then the pain in his leg began to throb and he knew it had to be attended to. Taking his left boot off, Francis cut his left pant leg so he could see the wound the minie ball had caused. He tried to stick a finger into the wound to feel for the minie ball, but the pain was too intense and he nearly passed out from his attempts.

  Taking off the bandana he wore around his neck to catch his sweat; he crawled back to the stream and drenched it in the cool running water. Ripping a small piece of cloth off the bandana, Francis gingerly placed it in the wound to stem the flow of blood. It hurt to do, but doing so slowed the flow of blood out of the wound. Then he tied the rest of the bandana over the wound. Using a small piece of a tree branch, he turned and twisted the branch, using it as a tourniquet to further stem the flow of blood. Satisfied after several minutes that he had done what he could do, he again leaned back against the tree and drifted off to sleep. He was alone now, his men all dead. Now he was hurt and being hunted by the Union army. For the moment, he was too tired and too hurt to care.

  Francis had only been asleep for about twenty minutes when a flock of ducks flying overhead loudly made their presence known. Their noises startled him awake as he saw them land nearby in the river. Waking up, he was confused at first as he had lost sense of where he was, but the pain from his leg quickly reminded him what had happened and where he was. Reaching for his pocket watch, he saw it was twenty after six in the morning.

  Believing his pursuers had to be closing in on him, Francis struggled to get up. He used all of his strength and the support of the Live Oak tree to finally stand up. He tried to keep his weight off of his injured left leg, but when he mounted his horse he had to put some weight on the leg and it quickly caused intense pain to flow throughout his body. Sitting on his horse and waiting for the pain to subside, he looked down at the bandana covering his wound. It had practically stopped the flow of blood from the wound. “Thank goodness for small things!”

  Francis realized unless he could find a doctor to remove the minie ball from his leg he was not going to be strong enough to dig up the money he had buried in the cemetery. “That should not be a big task for any person to do on their own, but now with this ball in my leg I do not have the means to do the work alone.” Now his thoughts turned to getting back to the cemetery for another reason. It was no longer to dig up what he had buried there, now it was to bury his saddlebags. They contained the rest of the gold and silver coins that he could not hide in the cannons back in Charleston. “I will bury the saddlebags near the rest of the money until I can return to get all of it at one time. If I can bury the saddlebags there, I will have a better chance of getting back to Charleston for help. I will be able to travel lighter and faster and I will be at peace knowing the money is at least safe for now.”

  Besides his wounded leg and the Union soldiers who were pursuing him, Francis faced one other obstacle, crossing the Waccamaw River. Sizing up the river as he rode along its western bank, he knew he had to find the narrowest point to cross due to his wounded leg. He realized he would have to pick a time when the river was quiet. He knew when the river’s tides changed that would be when it was at its calmest. South of where he now was, the river’s brackish water met the Atlantic’s salt water in Winyah Bay, just outside of Georgetown. Looking at the banks of the river, he could tell the depth of the river changed significantly with each change of the ocean’s tides. Finding a spot that he thought offered him the best chance to safely cross the river, Francis waited for the current to slow. As he did, he started to feel both the painful effects of the lodged minie ball in his leg and weakness from not having had much to eat. “I have to cross the river now or I will never be strong enough to do so.”

  Nearby Francis spied an oak tree sitting all alone next to the river, a single large tree towering over the chest high river grass. Riding closer to the tree, long since dead from a lighting strike years ago, he could see a section had snapped partway off the tree’s main trunk. It had likely
snapped when the tree was either hit by lightning or when it had died shortly afterwards. Arriving at the tree, he quickly saw the large limb as his means of crossing the river. The river was far too deep to risk crossing on his horse and getting stuck in the deep mud on the banks of the river would have panicked his horse. Abandoning his horse was a huge risk, but he had to get back to the cemetery sitting on the other side of the river. It was a risk he knew he had to take. “Hopefully I can find another horse at one of the plantations I come across.” Getting down off of his horse, he saw the large tree limb was almost six feet in length. As it bobbed in the brackish water, he could see it was roughly twenty inches in diameter. It was barely attached to the tree.

  Leaning against his horse to keep his weight off of his injured leg, Francis removed his gold pocket watch from his uniform blouse and placed it inside one of his saddlebags. After removing the saddlebags from his horse, he carefully protected them as he slowly slid down the river bank towards the dead tree. Reaching the tree limb, he set the saddlebags down on the bank of the river. “I have to keep the saddlebags dry because of my watch and because of the letters they contain. I cannot allow them to get wet.” After taking a few minutes to inspect the tree limb, he was somewhat confident he could use it as a way to cross the river. Slowly and painfully because of his injury, he crawled and climbed his way back up the bank to where he had left his horse.

  Exhausted by the time he got back to his horse, Francis lay on the ground for several minutes trying to muster his strength to finish what had to be done. Finally able to stand again, he made the painful short walk to where his horse stood quietly. His horse watched as its owner made his way over to him. “It’s OK old friend, it’s OK. It’s just time for us to say goodbye to each other, that’s all. You have served me well old friend and I shall miss you.” Patting him on the neck, he then gave his horse a hug. He had owned his horse since before the war had started. Grabbing his bayonet from where he had kept it by his saddle, he now placed it within his right boot. Unbuckling his saddle, but without the strength to lift it off his horse, he gave it a gentle push and allowed it to fall to the ground. Removing the bit from the horse’s mouth, he allowed the bit and the reins to also fall to the ground. Saying his final goodbye to his friend, he gently slapped the horse on its backside, urging the dark brown horse he called Warrior to leave him. After walking a short distance away, his horse stopped to eat some of the grass growing on the side of the river, unaware his owner would never ride him again. “I have just lost my last friend from this mission,” Francis thought as he painfully stooped to pick up his blanket. Tears filled his eyes as he looked back at his horse one last time. Struggling because of his injured leg, he placed the reins on top of his saddle in a neat pile. Then he limped away without looking back.